The morning sun barely cut through the overcast sky.
The training yard smelled of sweat, dust, and splintered wood. Dozens of recruits stood in a crooked line, eyes flicking nervously toward the far end—where Jinn waited.
She stood motionless. Officer coat trimmed neat. Sword strapped. Her gaze quiet, unreadable. Not angry. Not warm. Just still.
Beside her, a list. A name.
"Next," she said.
A boy stepped forward. Older teen. Sword user. Confident stride. Muscles formed right, breath steady. He bowed.
Jinn gave a short nod. Drew her blade in silence. Its steel caught no sunlight.
"Last five minutes. Don't die."
He blinked.
Then she moved.
Her attacks weren't wild. No yelling, no flaring aura. But they were clean, fast, efficient—pressuring, pinning, overwhelming.
He barely kept up for two.
At minute three, his sword flew from his hand.
Minute four, he hit the ground.
She raised her blade. He flinched.
"Disqualified," she said flatly. "Go home. Train. Come back with lungs that last."
The line behind him shifted uncomfortably.
One by one, she went through them. Some dropped weapons. Some begged for second chances. Some walked off on their own.
Few passed. Those who did barely stood straight.
No smiles. No cheers.
Jinn wrote names in silence.
---
By noon, the officer hallway buzzed.
"She's cutting too many."
"That girl from Arlin's team failed? She took down a river troll last month!"
"How's anyone supposed to match her? She's not a test, she's a punishment."
Lavirra leaned against the post, arms crossed.
"She has reasons," she said quietly.
The receptionist beside her sighed. "Sure. But we're low on field teams. And the rookies are terrified."
Lavirra didn't answer.
---
Outside, in the shade near the training yard, a few of the passed applicants sat on the bench, bandaging wrists and drinking from clay jugs. Their faces were pale.
One boy—slim, short sword user—looked back at the field.
"They said she used to be a receptionist."
"Not anymore," a girl murmured. "Now she's the Judge."
"Or the Iron Gate."
Someone laughed bitterly. "More like, if you pass her... you already survived your first death."
---
Jinn sat alone in the officer's room.
Another form. Another signature.
Her eyes lingered on one line: "Comments on potential?"
She wrote:
> Survived pressure. Didn't break.
She paused.
Then added:
> Shows awareness of surroundings. Didn't rely on luck.
The pen hovered.
Then:
> May actually live.
---
She closed the folder.
No regret. No relief.
Just silence.
Just standard.
> "Passing someone isn't kindness. It's calculation."
The rain hadn't come yet—but the wind picked up.
And in the yard, another name was called.